


Still Clinging to Your Shirt

by gypsydancergirl (hauntedlittledoll)



Series: At Every Step You Missed [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Random Literary References for the Win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-04
Updated: 2011-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-14 00:55:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/509604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/gypsydancergirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They just wanted a book.</p><p>This is how Dean and Castiel get from their cell phone conversation in the beginning of the episode to that last suicide mission--a backstory if you will for Future!Dean and Future!Castiel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Clinging to Your Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Titles and Series Title taken from Theodore Roethke's poem, "My Papa's Waltz."

Nothing was ever easy.  Nothing was ever as easy as it was supposed to be.  Two-man retrieval mission to a convent in Texas to retrieve a stupid—probably useless—book that might help Bobby locate the demon in charge of the Colt.  Castiel would fly him in, Dean would grab the book, and they’d be back in Bobby’s kitchen five minutes later.

There had been nothing said about the seven demons on holy ground guarding the book, or the mob of Croats outside the building as the townspeople destroyed themselves from the inside out.

“This had better be worth it,” Dean declared loudly.  He had been separated from Castiel earlier, but he’d left the angel with Ruby’s demon-killing knife and Castiel had been making swift progress through the bigger uglier foes.  Dean’s angel could handle himself until the hunter could get to him.  Dean had bigger things to worry about . . . or rather smaller things to worry about in the form of the possessed blonde teenage girl attempting to slice him into lots of little pieces with a nail-file of all things.

Dean spat out another line of the exorcism, and with a head-butt managed to regain some ground.  Rather than being flat on his back with demon-girl perched on his chest, he was now sitting on his ass with a nail-file buried in his shoulder.  He couldn’t slip in a moment of well-deserved cursing, so he growled through the rest of the exorcism while the demon was still reeling.

Peering through the smoke, Dean caught sight of Castiel’s trenchcoat as the angel sprinted up the stairs after the last demon and the book.  Wearily, Dean jerked the nail-file out of his arm and lurched to his feet to provide some back-up for his friend. It was his hunter’s instinct that sent him to the ground, and was rewarded with the flash of long blonde hair out of the corner of his eye.  _Just_ great; Pollyanna had a twin.

* * *

It was the scream that undid him.  Castiel didn’t scream.  Angels don’t just scream.  And when Dean actually heard a blood-curdling scream from above, he can’t help being distracted.  Unfortunately for Dean, Blondie took advantage of the opening left and backhanded him.  His head rebounded off the stone steps, and the demon moved to stand over him with a heavy statue in hand that the teenager wouldn’t have been able to lift on her own.

The demon suddenly spun away from the helpless Winchester in a state of unadulterated terror.  Grimly, Dean slammed his hands over his ears, knowing that this—whatever this was—wouldn’t be good, and rolled off and under the stairwell.  Angel-voice proceeded to blow out his eardrums anyway, only to heal a moment later, bleed again, and heal.  Again.  And again.

This was a million times worse than Castiel’s voice at the gas station.  Stronger, more powerful, and pained . . . so pained.

The human voice continued to scream throughout the angelic outcry, a sustained undercurrent to the angel-voice.  Dean would have done anything to never hear Castiel scream like that, but now he could do nothing but listen in the brief intervals where his hearing remained intact.

A brilliant flash of light fills the room, so bright that it shone through Dean’s eyelids and he can see the demon disintegrate in holy purifying flame through his closed eyes.  And then there is _Nothing_.

 _Nothing_ is silent.

* * *

When Dean next stirred, the warehouse is dark.  The fire alarm was blaring and the sprinklers had drenched everything excluding Dean, who was somewhat sheltered by the staircase.

Inside, there was only the steady blare of the fire alarm, and the noise of the sprinklers soft spray.  Outside, he could still hear the Croats clawing at the building, beating on the doors, and rattling the barred grates over the windows.  The pathetic beings just crawled over the bodies of their dead fellows; Dean could see the gore and destruction from here.

“Cas!”  Dean took the stairs two at a time.  “Cas!  Castiel, you-” and Dean cut himself off, because he didn’t know what he would find upstairs, where the second floor had been completely leveled.  “Castiel, where are you?” the irate Winchester demanded, wishing for a flashlight.

He had to find Cas.  He had to find him.  He couldn’t fail this time.  He had to find his bro-his angel.  He had to find his angel.

He saw the emblazoned black wings across the entire back wall first, and Dean’s heart nearly stopped at the sight.  An agonized breath finally escaped his chest, and the forced reminder of his body sent Dean into a fresh tailspin.  There was no body . . . no vessel left empty . . . square in the center of those wings.  If Castiel was gone, where was Jimmy Novak’s body?

It’s the trenchcoat that caught Dean’s eye, and he fairly flies himself towards his fallen friend.  Castiel lay sprawled on his back among the rubble.  Fighting back the over-whelming sense of déjà vu, Dean bent over Castiel and shook his shoulder.

The déjà vu intensified when the smaller form jack-knifed away from him.  Arms went up to protect his face in a purely-human gesture, but the poor guy can’t even muster the strength to stand up.  “Wha-what’s going on?” his voice cracks, as he crumpled in on himself.

“Take it easy, Jimmy,” Dean swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“I’m not J-jimmy . . . Jimmy . . . is gone.”

That had Dean down on his knees, bracing Castiel and demanding information simultaneously.  Information that Castiel wouldn’t—couldn’t—give if the shaking was anything to go by.

Dean pointed across the room at the beautiful deadly outline of massive wings.  “Who . . . what?”  Castiel wouldn’t meet his eyes, and Dean gripped a trenchcoat-clad shoulder as Castiel sank back towards the ground.  “Stay awake, Cas!” he bit off, his voice snapping an order.  “C’mon, man-”

A choked-sob broke past Castiel’s throat, and Dean stared.

Nothing else was forthcoming, and eventually, Dean broke the silence. “We have to get to Bobby’s.  Can you get us there, or do you need time to recharge?”

“I c-can’t take us anywhere,” and Jimmy’s stutter in Castiel’s voice grated on Dean’s nerves.  It took a moment for the meaning to sink in, and by then Castiel had continued, wide blue eyes fixed on Dean’s face.  “I c-can’t fly ever again.”

Dean felt horror rising through him, as Castiel delivered the final coup de grace.

“My wings are gone.”

And Castiel crumpled into Dean’s arms, crying like a heart-broken child feeling the first sting of betrayal, of guilt, of loss, of hunger, of pain, and of everything else that made humans what they were, but was spread out over the course of a lifetime to keep from overwhelming their fragile souls.

Dean crushed the man to his chest, muffling Castiel’s cries by forcing the former-angel’s face into the junction of head and shoulder, fisting one hand in the messy hair, trying to comfort, trying to calm, and trying not to remember holding another dying brother exactly like this.

When the tears finally ran out, Castiel was a shivering, sodden mess, and Dean is soaked through now from the sprinklers.  Now more than ever, they need to get back to the safety of Bobby’s, and Dean’s on his own to get them there.

No angelic transport.

No car.

Just a vulnerable former angel, a demon-killing knife, his gun, and four bucks.  The odds weren’t promising.

Dean had better get started.

C’mon, Cas.  We gotta get moving, buddy.”

Castiel nodded into Dean’s shoulder tiredly, from where he’s slumped against the hunter.  Taking that as permission, Dean hauled the smaller man upright.  Castiel swayed on his feet, so Dean kept one arm locked around the other man’s waist, and dragged one of Castiel’s arms across his shoulders.  Castiel’s shaking had already intensified and the former angel needed to get out of these wet clothes.  Unfortunately, there was nothing readily available to replace them.  Dean’s only now realizing the sheer number of threats to his former-angel.

Small steps.

Down the stairs.  Deal with the Croats.  Get outside.  Find a car.  Hotwire a car.  Interrogate Castiel.

The last step didn’t go quite as Dean planned.  Castiel was confused and exhausted.  Not a very good combination for someone on the verge of slipping into shock.  When Castiel’s lips begin turning blue, Dean makes a stop at the first department store he sees on his way out of town.  The Croatoan Virus has been here already, and the place looked abandoned.  He took the knife from Castiel just to be safe and shook the angel hard.

“Cas.  Cas!”  The former-angel flinched, but Dean wouldn’t relent.  “Cas, I’m going to go in there and get us some supplies.  I’m going to lock you in . . . just in case any of the Croats lingered.  Don’t leave, and _don’t_ fall asleep.  I’m going to need you to let me back in when I get back.  Got that?”

Castiel blinked foggily up at him.  “Don’t fall asleep,” he repeated.  It had to be good enough.

Dean stole and changed into dry clothes right in the middle of the aisle.  He was in a hurry, and the store was empty.  Societal approval was a luxury that Winchesters couldn’t afford anyway.

He stole sweats in his size for Castiel, because Dean would ease the human transition in any way he could.  It wasn’t much in comparison to what Castiel had lost, but Dean knew that it would be appreciated once Castiel came back to himself a little.  He even remembered the little stuff like boxers, undershirts, and socks—he forgot the shoes, but wouldn’t realize it until much later.

Then Dean made a quick foray into the food department.  He was never one to turn down free food, and Castiel ate so rarely that the human body must be ravenous.  Then, ever mindful of the Winchester luck, he picked up aspirin, first aid supplies, blankets, and smashed the knife counter for the biggest one available.  Dean raided broken cash registers for the funding to cover gas, rooms, and miscellaneous expenses all the way to South Dakota.  Dean whistled on his way out the door, resolving to keep in mind the sheer usefulness of abandoned Wal*Marts.

The temporary good mood evaporates when he has to bang on the window twice to get a reaction from Castiel.  The former-angel’s hands fumbled with the locks, and as soon as the distinctive click sounded, Dean ripped open the passenger door.

He had to crouch hastily to brace the man before Castiel could fall to the pavement.

“Cmon, Cas,” Dean slapped the former angel’s face gently.  “C’mon.  Get this shit off.”  He ends up having to manhandle the angel out of coat and blazer.  Dean didn’t have the patience for buttons or knots.  The tie was cut; the shirt ripped open, and then Dean stopped short.

“Cas?” he finally managed to choke out.

The angel’s blue eyes focused blearily on Dean’s face before following their gaze down to his bare chest.  The burn stood out vividly against pale and otherwise-unmarked skin.  The flat of a palm low over Castiel’s sternum, fingertips brushing the collarbone.  “Oh,” Castiel manages succinctly.

“Yeah, ‘oh,’” Dean growled.  “Something you might have mentioned?”

Because Dean recognizes that mark, has one just like it on his shoulder from a different hand.  It’s the mark of unrestrained angel on a lowly human.  It burns worse than can be put into mortal words.  And there had been angels in that convent.  An angel had died there.  An angel had marked Castiel.  Was it one and the same?  Had Castiel interrupted a holy showdown and gotten caught in the crossfire?

Zachariah, Anna, Gabriel, Raphael, Michael, Lucifer . . . “Was it _him_?!” Dean demanded.  “Did that _bastard_. . .” The name, Sam, came unbidden to his mind, but Dean squashed it down.  “. . . _Lucifer_ hurt you?!”

But the angelic mark aside, they were completely healed.  Why would . . . ?

“No.” Castiel covered the mark with his own hand.  “Gabriel,” Castiel almost choked on the name, and he looked away from Dean.  “Gabriel did not let . . .” Castiel’s chin jerked upright; Dean recognized wounded pride and fierce love briefly before the confusion of human failing returned.  Castiel looked away again.  “Gabriel took my place before Raphael and the Host.  He did not _ask_.”

Dean’s mind boggled.  “That selfish coward saved you?”

“After beating me bloody first,” Castiel agreed.  “He did not want me to fall, but it was my choice,” Castiel’s voice is iron, even as he shook from the cold.

Dean ripped open the packaging on the first blanket his fingers touch.  Castiel leaned forward enough for Dean to wrap it around the other man.  “Yeah, well . . . go Team Freewill,” he muttered hollowly, and Castiel cut a sharp glance up at him—like Dean surpassed his expectations.  They didn’t say anything else while Dean cut through the wet knots of the laces.  He left the battered dress shoes where they fell as Castiel continued.

“He allowed them to take my powers.  That was my punishment for being stubborn, but when Raphael prepared to smite me, Gabriel pushed me aside.”

Dean remembered pushes like that—brotherly, get-the-fuck-down-pushes, and brotherly, the-last-piece-of-pie-is-mine pushes, and brotherly, I’m-the-oldest-so-I’m-in-charge-pushes.

“He said . . .” and Castiel trailed off for a long moment.  “He said I had paid enough.  And then he was there, and I was across the room, and everything burned.”  Castiel hung his head.  “The death of an archangel . . . the entire Host will retreat to heaven for mourning.  Even Lucifer will be affected.”

“And you?”

Castiel frowned, his head nodding tiredly against his will.  “I . . . I am having trouble focusing my thoughts on the incident.”

“That’s called repression.  It’s a coping mechanism.  Welcome to humanity.”

“I do not wish to be human.”

Dean closed his eyes, pained.  “I know.”

Dean pulls into the first motel on the first clean stretch of highway, and it’s a good thing that it is dark out, because he has to carry Castiel to the room.  And answering questions about half-naked semi-conscious former-angels was not high on his priority list.  The man’s lips are blue, and Dean heads straight for the bathroom.  Dean kicks the lid shut on the toilet and sets Castiel there.  Spinning, he starts hot water and turns back to the former-angel.

Castiel’s not even trying anymore, so Dean manhandles him out of the last of his cold wet clothing and under the hot water, forcing Castiel’s head under the shower’s spray.  The heat is starting to restore some of Castiel’s senses, and once Dean’s positive that the angel won’t collapse, he retreats from the shower and makes a run back out to the car for the supplies he had picked up earlier.

It takes two trips, because he’d rather have everything on hand then need to make a second trip later.  He returns to find Castiel sitting on the edge of the tub, wrapped in the blanket again and staring off into space.  Dean grabs the abandoned towel and takes care of the wet hair dripping cold rivulets of water down Castiel’s face.

He’s relieved that the other man notices the ministrations, and heartened by Castiel trying to push him away, but Dean won’t have any of it.  His friend is still too pale and still shivering.  He supervises Castiel getting dressed, and hustles him back out into the motel room and to the nearest bed.

The newly acquired shirt comes off again, and Dean inspects the mark.  It could be so much worse than it is.

“Well, despite going ten rounds with a celestial bear, you look pretty good considering,” Dean announces, not expecting a response.  “Let’s-”

“H’rts,” Castiel slurred his first word since the heart-rending confession earlier.

Pain is an abstract concept to an angel, the vessel a barrier between the angel and the injury, divine healing grace undoing damage nearly instantly.  Castiel is feeling pain, really and truly feeling pain for the first time, and the guy can’t even muster up tears for what must hurt like a bitch because he’s completely spent.

Dean can’t fix this with ice.  Not when Castiel’s body temperature keeps flagging.  He’s even hesitant about giving the angel any kind of medication, because if Castiel goes to sleep, Dean has no assurance that the guy will wake up.  Jimmy Novak’s body has been through all sorts of trauma, and Castiel’s sudden transformation has ripped away all of what held it together.  Shock was nasty.

“I know, buddy,” he decides slowly, “But it’ll get better.”

It has to.


End file.
